From Out of the Rain
by RavenWriter89
Summary: 11th Doctor with OC. When a rain-soaked woman lies huddled at the door of the TARDIS, remnents of past actions come out of the dark and are not what the Doctor expects.
1. Chapter 1:People Are Helpless

It was raining. He knew it would be, of course, but that didn't make it any less unpleasant. He ducked his head against the downpour and walked fast. He didn't pay attention to his surroundings but he knew the path well. Left at the lights, cut across the parking lot, right at the house with the broken window. And there it was, standing amongst the litter in an alleyway, looking like it had been abandoned. The rain had turned the blue paint dark, and in the twilight it looked almost black. Later he would say that it was because of the darkness and the rain that he didn't notice the bundle of cloth that was heaped at the foot of the box, and he had assumed it was nothing more than human refuse.

It looked up. "You are not the man I was looking for," it said.

"Sorry," he said to hide his shock. He looked around and hesitated; he should be moving on. He was getting to be too well-known in these parts, and people would start looking for him. But the cloth-bundle (containing a young woman's face, he now saw) was drenched from the rain, and he didn't want the thought of her catching pneumonia to nag at him. "Perhaps you should go indoors," he said. "Don't you have somewhere warm to be?"

"Yes," she said. She didn't move. She was still staring at him.

"Maybe you should go there now," he said, hoping she'd get the hint and move on. She was sitting directly in front of the door, and he was too polite to step over her.

"I was looking for you," she said.

"But you just said that you weren't looking for me. Really, if we're going to talk in riddles, I'd like a bit of warning first."

"I was looking for you, but I came too late," she said. She lowered her head, hiding her face again. "I always come too late."

He was getting quite chilled by this point, and he reckoned that the woman must be freezing. _This is a bad idea,_ he thought, but ignored it. "Look, why don't you come into my, erm, box and warm up. Then you can tell me what's wrong." He smiled hopefully, even though she couldn't see him.

She looked up. "Into the magic blue box, the wonderful Wonkavator, that goes up and down and sideways and slantways and longways and squareways," she smiled.

"Was that a yes?" he asked. She might be crazy, or she might be messing with him. Either way, she would be interesting to have a conversation with.

She held out a hand. It took a second before he realised she was waiting for him to help her up. He obliged. "What was your name?" he asked.

"Didn't give it. But you can call me Jane," she replied, sounding lucid and cheerful. She held out her hand again, this time to shake.

Again, he obliged. "I take it that's not your real name?"

She grinned. "What's in a name? What does a 'real' name tell you about a person? Are any of our names real?"

"Good point," he said, unlocking the door. "I'm the Doctor. Nice to meet you."

*** She took the inside of the 'box' rather well. She strode straight up the ramp and to the console, sitting down on the creaky jump seat as if she'd done it for years. "It's nice," she said.

"Erm, yes it is," he said, watching her carefully. "It's also, you know, bigger on the inside."

"Yes, I can see that," she said gently.

"And that doesn't bother you?"

" 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than can be dreamt of in your philosophy.' "

More riddles. "Not the first time someone's said that to me," he said. "I meet Old Bill once. Cheeky flirt."

"Ah, but have you meet your match?" she grinned again.

She must be mad. Only the insane take things like this so well. "Who are you?"

"I am a redundant tool. An anomaly. A saviour for those already saved."

This was getting tiresome. "How long were you out in the rain?" he asked, taking a different tactic.

She fell silent and still, no longer grinning. " 'The day is cold, and dark, and dreary. It rains, and the wind is never weary,' " she said softly.

"Longfellow," he said. "First Dahl, then Shakespeare, now Longfellow. You're a fan of literature. That's something at least. Who are you?"

" 'Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; behind the clouds is the sun still shining; thy fate is the common fate of all-' "

" '-into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary,' " he finished. Her smile was faint but content.

He was still standing by the door, water dripping off him. A similar puddle was forming under the jump seat from her clothes. He walked up to the woman and said, "I'll get you something so you can dry off." She didn't move, only looked at him.

He disappeared into the maze of hallways and returned a few minutes later with some towels and a tartan blanket. "There's always something tartan in here, sorry 'bout that," he muttered. He set them down beside her and leaned against the console. In silence she stripped off her jacket and squeezed the water out of her hair. She kicked off her shoes and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

"Better?" he said.

"Do you want to look inside my head?" she asked.

He blinked, but didn't say anything. The question had taken him by surprise. She intrigued him, and he wanted to know where she came from, but did he really need to go that far? He could see that there wasn't anything overtly malicious or devious in her character, but the way she talked and the things she said unnerved him. She knew something, and wasn't going to give it up easily. And she had given him permission, in a roundabout sort of way. But that wasn't right, was it? You can't consent to something if you don't know what it is. And he wasn't sure if she was rational enough to give such permission. He said, "How would you suggest I look in your head? I'm not a therapist; I don't have an MRI; I'm certainly no surgeon-"

She moved swiftly and suddenly she was in front of him, pinning him to the console. "Use those magic fingers. You can wander the halls of my mind as easily as I can wander the streets of London." When he still hesitated, she said, "I don't have the words to explain it. You need to see for yourself. Please."

He was forced to look her in the eye for the first time. They were a marble-like green; interesting, but nothing to write sonnets about. Under the colour, they were complex. Pleading, desperation, passion-fire, and the strange calm of the mad all swirled together. "Alright," he finally said. He placed his fingers against her temples, her skin nearly as cool as his, and without thinking said, "I'll be gentle."

She laughed once, a brief exhalation. "Just try me."

Then he was in her head.

In the few minds he had been in, there had been doors of locked information and pockets of random sensation. It was disorientating, like being in a carnival funhouse, but he grew used to it quickly. No matter the time, place, or species, his experience of another's mind was roughly the same.

Her mind was different. For one thing, it was ordered. It was as organized as any library. Other minds had memory stuffed next to fantasy, today beside twelve years ago, a certain smell connected to a person. Her mind adapted itself to him. It brought up the most recent memories first and started to flip backwards. He could see how he looked through her eyes; the sopping too-long hair covering half of his pale too-long face. The memories flipped faster, blurring together and leaping through months and years of her life.

He wasn't doing this. She was. She was leading him to a specific moment in her mind, the important moment that she couldn't tell him herself.

Suddenly the motion stopped. The memories had reached the end and disappeared. He was left in blackness, or at least his mental perception of blackness. Movement caught his eye. What was down here, in the basement of her mind? That tingling nervousness he felt when he looked at her had come back.

There! Something large and white and slow. Something walking towards him. He watched warily as it approached. It was an animal of some sort. It seemed to take ages for it to get close, but again it was only his perception. When he could finally make out its form, he didn't gasp or cry out or stare in disbelief. He merely breathed deep and tilted his head in recognition.

It was a wolf.

Truthfully, he wanted to leave it all behind. Move on. Start over. Let the past stay dead. He hated being followed by ghosts.

The wolf stopped in front of him. Its ears could have brushed his chin, it was so tall. Its fur was thick and creamy and luxurious, the kind of fur you wanted to bury your face in and never leave. But he was more interested in the eyes. Its eyes were the same colour yellow as gold and amber reflecting candlelight. They held wisdom, and comfort, and trust. It was a beautiful creature. "I wonder what Freud would have said about you," he murmured.

It huffed in the same way the woman did, so he took it for laughter. They stared at each other for while, examining the other, until the wolf stepped to the side and stared behind him. He turned.

There was another wolf watching them. It was so different in appearance to the first one that it was almost painful to look at. Its skin stretched over sharp bones and ropey muscle, and its brindled fur was lank and ragged. Salvia dripped from its open jaws, and it panted wetly. Its eyes were also yellow, but reminded him of pus-filled orbs rather than jewels. They were so round they looked like they would burst from its skull at any moment. It had rabid eyes.

"What have you done?" he whispered. He heard something and reluctantly turned back. He didn't trust that thing behind him. The first wolf was trotting away, lifting up its muzzle in a howl that he couldn't hear but felt in his bones. Other shadows brushed past him, following their leader. They ran off into the darkness.

He looked back at the monstrosity. It hadn't moved. "What do you want from me?" he called. "Why do you need me?"

The creature (he refused to call it by the same name as the one that just left) lifted its head slightly, and began to cough. It was a racking, tortuous noise, causing salvia to fly everywhere. It was made worse when he realized it wasn't coughing, but laughing. The noise got louder and hoarser and more terrible until he finally covered his ears and yelled, "Stop it!"

It did. The silence rang with the memory of sound, but it was silence nonetheless. "What are you?" he said. The creature did nothing but stare at him with insane intensity. Then, with impossible speed, it rushed at him and leapt at his throat.

He pulled out of her mind and stood panting against the console. She looked at him sadly. "See?"

"What are you?" he asked again, but wasn't sure if he was referring to the creature or the woman. He needed answers. This was getting out of hand.

"I was supposed to help you. I'm sorry."

Normally he was slow to anger, but the encounter with the wolves had scared him. "You need to stop this," he said. "You need to tell what was in your mind. You need to tell me how you found me, and what you're supposed to do, and what I'm supposed to do. Tell me!" he said when she didn't move.

"She saw everything," she said quietly.

He stopped, then gently led her back to the jump seat. "Tell me what happened," he said just as gently, sitting beside her. She stared into space, not looking at him. She drew a rough breath and started talking.

"For the briefest moment, she saw everything. The length and breadth and depth of it all. Everything. She could have changed so much, but she didn't. She focused on you." She smiled slightly. "She saw your timeline, burning across the stars. She watched all the lives you touched and saw her place in it. All the events that happened. She watched her death, and the beach. She watched the stars disappear. She watched the reunion, and the crisis, and the final parting. She watched you continue on alone, always alone. So, she tried to give you the right kind of companion. The immortal you ran from. The soldier who died in your arms. The equal who had to forget you. All failures." She turned to him and talked faster. "It was all done by instinct, you see, she was almost unconscious of what she was doing. Nothing was done deliberately. She never wanted to cause pain or sorrow, but she did the best she could. She wanted to create hope." She turned away again, all animation gone. "Even as she paved the way for their creation, she saw how they failed. Some new variable changed with each new test. She kept trying."

He remembered what she said earlier. "You're one of the anomalies," he said. He felt numb. Would the consequences of that night never leave him?

"Yes. She changed me. She told me about you. She said, 'Find him.' She gave me the knowledge of your history, and adjusted my mind so I could use it. I was another test. An experiment."

"I'm sorry," he said. It was the only thing he could offer.

"She was so young," she whispered.

They fell silent again. Her speech seemed to have used up her energy, and he needed time to think. He didn't know how long he sat there before he realized she had fallen asleep. He straightened the blanket around her and stood. "We'll talk in the morning," he murmured and left her there.

***

Literary sources are: _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ by Roald Dalh, _Hamlet_ by William Shakespeare, and _The Rainy Day_ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


	2. Chapter 2:People Are Curious

He walked into the console room to find her leaning over the controls. She looked better than she did last night, brighter and more alert. She didn't look like she was going to keel over at any moment. When she noticed him, she smiled.

"I was just looking, I didn't touch anything," she said.

"No, it's alright," he said. "Do you know what you're looking at?"

"No idea. It's all bits and pieces to me." She shrugged. "That's not how it works."

He frowned. "How what works?"

"My mind," she said. "I was only given the tools to find you. I'm not your equal; I don't have any more knowledge than any other human."

"So you're still human, even though you've been…tinkered with."

"Yup. Primitive knowledge, overemotional, short lifespan. One heart."

He said nothing. The easiest way to get information was to let her talk at her own pace.

"Except that I was made from anger and fear and grief," she said conversationally. "I'm human, but I have a choice no one else does."

He couldn't help himself. "And what choice is that?"

"She didn't want anything noticeable or unsettling. Just a choice, hidden until the right time."

Last night was still bothering him, and he had to ask. "When I was in your mind, did you see what I saw?"

Her face stilled and her eyes dulled. She was retreating again. "I saw the wolves," she whispered.

"Do you know what they are?" The rabid wolf had shaken him badly. He couldn't imagine what it was doing to her.

"Ghosts in the machine."

"Do they hurt?"

"No, they hide until they're needed."

"What does that mean?"

" 'The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long,' " she said, moving around the console.

"No, don't do that, I didn't mean to—"

" 'I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.' "

He paused. "I'm not familiar with that one."

"Rabindranath Tagore," she said.

"Hmm. I might have met him once. Tall fellow, funny beard?"

She ignored him, and instead walked back to the jump seat to retrieve her jacket. She was halfway down the ramp before he caught on.

"You're leaving so soon?"

She turned. "I found you; you don't need me. Why keep useless tools?"

"Now, there are two assumptions you've made. One, I don't think you're useless. In fact, I find you quite interesting. Two, how do you how I don't need you? What if I run into T. S. Eliot and can't figure out what he's talking about?"

" 'Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity. He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.' "

"See? There you go, useful already."

" 'And when you reach the scene of crime Macavity's not there.' " The slight smile that appeared whenever she recited poetry drifted across her face.

"I hope you're not implying something," he grinned.

Instead she frowned. "You…want me to stay?"

"It's the least I can do, after you sought me out and everything." He sobered. "And I doubt that leaving you behind is what she had intended."

She watched him as if trying to gauge his motives.

He watched her in return. She fit here. And it wasn't just because she had been made to fit; that was actually a small part of her. But it was the rest, the stuff that was irrevocably _her_, that made her fit. He had been in her head, and he had seen potential.

Physically she was nothing special. Her clothes were modern, but not the height of fashion. Her trainers were as sensible as her short haircut. But he saw under the surface; even though she looked healthy, her appearance suggested she had been long neglecting her own needs. Her face was too thin, or her eyes too weary. It like looking through a sheet of water. The search for him had cost her a lot, and he didn't want that effort to have been wasted.

"Deal," she said, rousing him out of his revere. She walked back up the ramp, and tossed her jacket through one of the coral supports as she passed. The motion, once so familiar and now done so casually by another, startled him.

It must have showed on his face, because she asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing. It's nothing." He grinned again. "Welcome aboard."

She grinned back, all traces of shadows gone. The moment was interrupted by her stomach growling loudly. Her grin turned sheepish and she mumbled an apology.

"No, no, it's me who should be apologising," he said. "What a terrible host I am!" He laughed and held out his arm to her. "Come on, let's get you some breakfast. Chips are always a good start. What do you say?"

She took the offered arm. "My treat, I'm guessing."

"Habit of a lifetime and I don't intend on changing it now."

As they exited, he eyed her. "Am I going to have to get used to that?"

"Used to what?" The day was warm, so she had left her jacket behind.

"You already knowing things about me. If I were anybody else, it would sound like you're stalking me." He tried to say it lightly so he wouldn't spook her again.

Her forehead creased anyway, but her tone mimicked his. "You got it. Can't keep secrets from me. I'm like your secretary. I know everything about you." He looked at her in concern, but saw the cheekiness she was trying to hide.

_Good,_ he thought. _If she's comfortable enough to tease me, we're making progress._

They walked through town, arm in arm, until they found a small but suitable take-away. She bought chips for both of them, and they ate on a park bench. Already children were running around the playground with their mothers chatting nearby. They watched the kids in silence, each enjoying the odd familiarity of the other.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly.

"For what?" he asked.

"For earlier. For being so difficult. You must have so many questions about me, and I can't answer them properly. I want to explain, I really do, but…"

"It's okay, I understand," he said. "What if I started small?"

She nodded gratefully. "That would work."

He paused for a moment, thinking. "Why poetry?"

She blinked at the question. "What?"

"Poetry. Literature. When you get upset, you quote different works. It's clearly a defence mechanism, but you could reel off equations, periodic elements, names of constellations. Why books?"

"My mind is more categorical than most," she said slowly. "I remember things better. When I'm stressed, it's easier to use other people's words than to explain what's really happening." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Ever try to tell someone that you're following a timeline that continually doubles back on itself?"

He laughed. "I see what you mean. Using the metaphorical to describe the actual. You say the truth and nobody thinks you're crazy. It's a good plan. Still okay?" he added.

She nodded.

"Alright. Next question: when I first met you, you said that I wasn't the man you were looking for. What did that mean?"

"Ah," she smiled. "Apparently I was looking for an outdated model. I was looking for the one with the long coat and the hair."

"I've got hair," he said affronted.

She eyed his mop. "I can't deny that." She looked down at the empty chip wrapper. "Not the best breakfast I've ever had. I feel like a teenager again."

He looked down at his own. "I don't know. Chips are safe, familiar. Chips and tea; two of the greatest culinary advances of the human race. But," he continued, throwing both wrappers into a bin, "if you find it wanting, we can always try a place I know. Thing is, it's a little far out of town."

She turned to him and asked wryly, "How far?"

"Oh, just 14 miles that way," he pointed to the left, "and about 80 years forward." Her look of wide-eyed astonishment made him laugh. "I thought you knew about all this."

"It's one thing to have it in the back of your mind, it's another to actually have it standing in front of you. You're like a chimera."

"Well, I've been called a lot worse. Shall we return to the—what did you call it?"

"The wonderful Wonkavator."

"Of course. Not a bad name, but the 'Wonkavator' in question might not take it too well." He stood up and turned back to her, still sitting on the bench. "You're sure you want to come with me? You know what it's like out there, and you've had more warning than most."

She stood up beside him. "I'm sure. I have to go back anyway." She started to walk away.

"Why's that?" he said going after her.

"I've left my jacket on your ship," she called.

***

When they returned he immediately started to fiddle with the controls. "So, forward 80 years? Hopefully we don't land on a Sunday, they're always closed Sundays…"

"I doubt that would stop us," she said.

"Gained a taste of adventure already?" he grinned. "Alright, here we go. Setting geographic coordinates," he twisted a dial, "stabilizing temporal feed," he flipped a switch, "and finally," he pulled a lever, "the hand brake."

The transition started immediately, both for the ship and its passengers. At the roar of the engine she looked like she was hearing a long-lost sonata. And maybe to her, that's what it was. He watched her as she stared at the central column like a rare gem. How odd it must be for her, to finally find what she had been searching for all her life. It was odd for him, too. Very few people actively sought him out, and he usually met those by accident in the first place.

They landed softly, and she looked at him with trepidation. He grinned back at her. He loved watching their first time. It was like Christmas. She walked slowly to the door and paused with her hand on the handle.

"Where are we exactly, and, you know, when?" she asked.

"Just off the Strand, London, England, 2093. About ten o'clock in the morning," he said proudly.

"Wow," she said, more to herself than to him, "I really did it." She straightened her shoulders, breathed deep, and pulled open the door.

"Oh," she said.

He quickly joined her at the door. "Ah."

All things considered, the world hadn't changed that much. Different cars certainly, sleeker and with more glass, but the fashions seemed to be going through a retro trend. A girl walked by wearing a shirt that could have come from a Sex Pistols concert, except that the colours shifted oddly in the light. By now, the Sex Pistols might be considered classical music.

That wasn't what made them both pause. The city was different; not just changed, but completely unrecognizable. For one thing, it was green. There were trees everywhere. An enormous church stood in front of them. "Huh," he said absently.

"I don't recognize that church," she said. "Is it supposed to be St. Clements or St. Mary-le-Strand?"

"Um, I don't think it's either."

"So what is it?"

He stepped further out on to the street. "It's, uh, it's a street, with a church and people, and cars on the wrong side of the road."

"You don't know where we are, do you?"

"No, I do, I do, we're—" he glanced quickly around, "we're on Clarence Street." He beamed.

She stepped out of the ship and closed the door. Her jacket hung from her hand. "This isn't London," she stated.

His confidence shuddered slightly. So much for showing off. "Well, that's easily remedied." He stepped up to someone walking by, a middle-aged man in an old army jacket. "Excuse me," he started, "my friend and I were wondering where exactly we are." When the man just looked at him, he continued. "You see, we're new in town, and I wanted to show her some of the sights, impress her, you know, but I got a bit turned around." He shrugged apologetically.

The man smiled. "Of course," he said, in a very non-British accent. American, perhaps. "You're on Clarence Street, right by St. Peters." He gestured towards the church.

He could hear her snicker behind him. "Yes, but what…area?" he asked.

"Central London."

"London? So we're definitely in London?"

The man glanced between the two of them and smiled. "Wild night, huh?" His eyebrows waggled suggestively.

He looked back to see her covering her mouth to try and control her laughter. "You could say that."

"There's a bus stop a couple of blocks that way. It'll take you straight to the middle of town. At least you didn't end up someplace boring like Ottawa."

Ottawa. Ah.

He thanked the man and walked back. "Told you we were in London."

"But which London?" she insisted.

He looked around again to take in their surroundings. "Unless I am very much mistaken—" she huff-laughed again "—then we are in the city of London, but not the one in England. It's London, Ontario," he said. "We're in Canada."

She blinked. "Oh." Pause. "Maple trees and ice hockey."

He smiled wickedly. "This is going to be fun."

***

"Not exactly what I had in mind, but it'll do," he said and stirred his tea. "I mean, I was close. We are in London, next to the Thames…"

"Just on the wrong side of the Atlantic," she interrupted, smiling.

"Yes, there is that," he conceded.

Silence fell, each contemplating what to do next. He was running over what little he knew of this city, of this country even, and her eyes darted around the café, enjoying the sights. A bit of wandering never did anyone any harm in his opinion. But when she said that he'd promised her breakfast, he relented and flashed a little money from a bank machine. It felt odd to see the current British monarch adorning the bills. Alternate London indeed.

She was looking out the window when she leaned towards him. "I think we're being watched," she said with a tiny tilt of her head. He followed her direction and saw three people huddled around a table in a corner. As he watched they threw glances his way.

"We do look like out-of-towners," he said.

"Nobody watches out-of-towners with that much interest."

He turned away from the trio and looked at her. "What do you want to do?"

She paused, then grabbed his yet untouched tea ("Hey!") and walked toward the other table. Her boldness surprised him, but there was no reason it should. She offered his tea to one of them, a male, as a kind of token of peace. They talked in quiet tones that he couldn't hear from across the room, but he could glean enough information by the way she first pointed to him and by their curious stares. Eventually she waved him over. With a sigh, he got up.

It wasn't that he didn't want to meet new people, but meeting one at a time would be nice, instead of all in a gaggle over the space of two days.

"This is Jack," she said as he approached.

"Jack?" he said incredulously.

"Well it's not really 'Jack,' that's just a stage name, but it helps to keep things private," she continued, still speaking to the strangers.

"Stage name?" he repeated.

"But I haven't got your names yet. Sorry," she smiled at the male who now had his tea.

"I'm Pen," the male said, and introduced his companions. "This is Quill," another male, "and Siblus," a female. They smiled in turn, but didn't say anything. Pen did all the talking. "We're here visiting, like you guys. What brings you here?"

Before she could answer, he politely excused them and whispered harshly, "Who is Jack?"

"A little back-story, that's all. I needed to come up with something fast, so now we're…buskers," she said offhandedly.

"And the stage names?"

She half-smiled. "A name I remembered from somewhere. 'Crazy Jane and Jack the Journeyman.' Rather fitting, isn't it?"

He gazed at her coolly, eyebrow cocked. "Next time, I choose the back-story. I, at least, have this." He held up the worn wallet.

She looked at it blankly. "What's that?"

"It's the psychic paper," he frowned. "It tells people what I want them to see."

She shook her head. "I don't remember it. Sometimes, it's like déjà vu, others…" She shrugged.

"That's what you get for skipping to the end of the story. Spoilers." She looked at him, startled, but he smiled. "Now, let's chat to your new friends properly, shall we? And you can get me another tea."

"What happened to treating me like glass, then?"

"There are no glass figures on my ship."

He went back to Pen and his group while she ordered. "So, what has, uh, Jane said about us?"

Pen had the smile of a traveler who's new in town; congenial, yet aware. "Just that you're passing through. What kind of busking do you do?" His accent was subtly foreign, soft and lilting.

"Disappearing acts mostly. What about you?"

Pen glanced at his companions before answering. "Business."

"What kind of business?"

Pen waved the question aside. "Just land contracts. Nothing special."

Jane returned bearing several mugs and small dishes. "Anybody hungry?" She continued the conversation while he studied the others. It was easy to see why Pen was able to dominate people's attention. He was young and handsome, willing to talk and easy to talk to. Pen let people trust him.

But he was lying.

* * *

Literary sources are: _Journey Home_ by Rabindranath Tagore, _Macavity: the Mystery Cat_ by T. S. Eliot, and _Crazy Jane and Jack the Journeyman_ by William Butler Yeats.


	3. Chapter 3:People Are Stupid

* * *

Lunch was fascinating. There was something called a beavertail that sweetened the tea wonderfully. Canadians had an odd notion of how tea should taste; it was almost as strong as their coffee. He learned they were immensely proud of that fact.

He also learned that acting like a mild idiot was an easy way to avoid drawing attention to yourself. He busied himself with the fetters of food while listening to Pen and Jane. He had tried to include the other two, but it was like talking to a brick wall (which was actually easier than it sounded). So he watched and listened and made the odd inane comment, all the while gathering information and slotting it together. No, Pen wasn't here for land contracts. Yes, he was here with a purpose. Yes, he questioned her closely. No, he didn't give any specifics about himself. Yes, he was flirting with her. No, he didn't make any move to get closer to her.

There was something about Pen's speech that nagged at him. Not his accent, but his word choice. It had a pattern he recognized, but he couldn't remember where from.

It happened while passing a dish. Jane's fingers brushed Pen's. It was a slight touch, hardly impolite, but the effect on both of them was profound. She gasped and froze. Pen's eyes widened with sorrow and horror. Jane suddenly pulled away and ran for the door. She was gone before he could stop her.

He turned on Pen. "What did you do to her?" he growled.

Pen was still dazed. "Nothing, I just…" He looked around him before focusing. "I heard the howling."

He stood up. "I am going to go find her, and then I will return and there will be words." He left them in silent confusion.

He figured that she wouldn't go back to the ship; it was too far and she didn't have a key. The street was full of people and she would avoid the crowds. There was a park close by that seemed the most likely place she would hide. He idly wandered the paths and eventually found her standing in front of a statue of several men wearing sport uniforms.

She didn't turn as he walked up but nodded at the plaque at the statue's base. "The London Werewolves. A baseball team from the last century."

"What happened back there?" he asked.

"You met a werewolf once, didn't you? It's like remembering a dream."

"Tell me," he said, "At least trust me. Enough of the riddles and skirting around a question. That may work on everybody else, but not me."

She was silent for so long he was beginning to think he had been too harsh, but then she answered. "He saw me. And I wasn't prepared for it." She turned to him with a pained expression. "He looked into my mind!"

He met her gaze and then abruptly turned back to the statue. He had to concede the fact that the moniker she picked for herself, Crazy Jane, was quite accurate. Even after he had looked through her mind and found the wolves, he saw her as just another human. Interesting, yes, but still human. She wasn't exactly insane by their standards, but the tinkering that led to her existence left her unable to react to the world like other people. A lifetime of living sideways had made deep impressions and old habits.

If he wanted her to speak to him without riddles, he'd have to do the same. "I don't think they're locals," he started. "I think they're a species of empaths. Empathics, if you will. When Pen touched you, there would have been some transfer from you to him. I doubt he did it deliberately, but you, being more telepathically sensitive, felt it where someone else wouldn't have."

"You mean a regular human," she said. "A regular human wouldn't have felt it."

"Yes," he said carefully. "But regular doesn't always mean normal." He studied the face of the baseball player closest to him and said rhetorically, "Who are you?"

She answered him anyway. " 'I'm Nobody! Who are you?' " He turned to her and she grinned lopsidedly. " 'Are you—Nobody—too?' "

He paused. "Give me a hint."

"Dickinson."

"Ah. Good woman. Very fond of collecting teapots. So," he rubbed his hands together, "think you want to go back? I'm curious to find out how a group of empathics ended up in Canada at the end of the 21st century. And it'd be more interesting with two. What'd you say?" He gave a charming smile that he knew had worked on others. "Can't give up already."

She startled him by scowling. "Jack the Journeyman, you run through my blood, and I'll be damned if you have an adventure without me."

"That's the spirit, come on!" He grabbed her hand and ran, rewarded when she laughed and allowed herself to be pulled along. It felt good to be running to rather than away. He'd missed this.

When they reached the café, she hesitated. "Trust me," he said. "I won't let them hurt you." He walked through the door with her trailing behind.

Pen, Quill, and Siblus were still at their table. They were huddled together whispering intensely. "It's alright," he called, making them jump, "I found her. No worries." He sat down at the table between Jane and Pen, making it look unintentional. "I hope you weren't waiting too long." He flashed a smile at Siblus. "I'm glad you decided to stay because," he leaned forward, and the others automatically copied him, "I want to know who you are and what you're doing here." His voice had lost all trace of flippancy and turned hard.

The others stayed silent.

"Cat caught your tongue?" he said. "That's too bad. I much prefer the easy way. I'll have to start without you. Right," he pointed to Pen, "you're the most talkative, the mouthpiece of the group, but that doesn't make you the leader. These two," his finger moved to Quill and Siblus, "are not the same station as you. They might be guards, or they might be your superiors, the ones who really know what's going on. Either way," he turned back to Pen, "you're not in charge here. You're a show pony. My guess is that you're an interpreter at best, a prisoner at worst. I really don't care one way or the other. What I care about is that you have upset my friend here. Talk about a bad first impression. The point of all this is that I don't like having people upset without a very good reason. So I'm hoping you can provide me with this very good reason. Does that sound reasonable?" He gazed around the table.

No one spoke for a long moment. Then Quill coughed slightly and said, "What has upset your friend?" His voice was slow and deep, with an East European ring to it.

"Your compatriot," he said scathingly, "entered her mind without her permission."

"I didn't know she would sense it!" Pen burst out. "It was an accident." He looked at Jane. "I'm sorry, I really didn't mean it."

"But you should have been shielded," he said. "You were careless." He sighed and leaned back. The table seemed to relax. "What do you think?" he asked Jane.

She stared at Pen, who looked like a kicked dog. "I think it can be overlooked in exchange for some information."

He smiled. "You're good at this." Back to Quill, he said, "Forget what I said earlier, I really am interested in who you are and what you're doing here. Care to enlighten an old man?"

The three glanced at each other. "It's complicated," Pen said.

"Isn't it always. Why don't you start with what species you are? I hate guessing."

Quill took over. "We are Krevas. My name is Quillitorus Ren Lacephlidosu. Siblusivil Kan Lacephlidosu is my sister. This is our ward, Penthoulavid Vor Krowickska."

"You're family," Jane said.

"In a sense," said Quill, "although maybe not in the biological way you view it."

"So is this just a family vacation?" he asked. "Why say you're doing business?"

Another glance.

"Are you refugees?" Jane ventured.

Quill shook his head. He seemed to struggle for words. "This would be easier to explain if you would let me…" he reached out a hand.

He leaned out of reach. "I thought you were empathics," he said, stalling.

"It is a simplified term given to us by others. But we can effectively communicate this way." Quill's hand hung in the air.

"No," he said, "I've had my fill of psychic transfers, thanks. Besides, it's rude to leave others out of the conversation."

Pen interrupted. "I may just be the show pony, but I can tell you what's going on. They're not allowed to verbalize anything about it to keep it secret. See?" He turned Quill's wrist to show a Medic-Alert bracelet. Siblus wore an identical one.

"What is it?" asked Jane.

"It's a cognition blocker," he explained. "It makes it physically impossible for them to talk about…whatever it is they're not supposed to talk about." He looked up at Quill. "But they didn't know you were empathics, so they didn't block for it. Clever."

"Why don't you have one?" Jane asked Pen.

He smiled ruefully. "They thought I was too stupid to be part of the project. I wouldn't see anything important. I was only a pencil-pusher."

Jane smiled slowly in return. "It was an act."

"Exactly."

"But no one has said what this project is yet," he said to the table in general.

"Sorry, Jack," Pen said.

"You don't have to call me—" he started, but was interrupted.

"It's nothing illegal," said Siblus, speaking for the first time. Her voice was like wind chimes, delicate and tinkling. She looked around as if startled that she had said anything. "We're not harming this planet or its inhabitants. It's little more than research."

"See how long it stays like that," he said dryly. "Pen, if you're going to tell us, tell us, or I'm just going to find it myself and become a general nuisance to all parties involved. I don't have a lot of patience left at this age."

"Why should he?" said Siblus. "You sound as if you want to shut it down, and you don't even know what it is yet. What does it matter to you?"

"It matters," he said, "because it's not the right time for alien species to be living on Earth, let alone experimenting on it. Whatever you've brought with you, technology, energy, viruses, anything, it could change this planet for the worse. And I've fought too long to let that happen because of a bunch of researchers." He stood up. "I can see that I'm going to have to do this the clumsy way. Come on, Jane." He walked out without looking behind him.

He heard her catch up to him, but didn't say anything. He was too frustrated. Bloody bureaucrats! It was bad enough that they were blundering around on a planet that had barely begun to accept life beyond itself, but the air of secrecy made it sound like a corporation protecting a patent. So there was money on the line. And greed made people crazy.

They were nearly back at the ship when she broke the silence. "You called me Jane."

"It's your name, isn't it?" he said, still distracted.

"It's what I introduce myself as," she clarified. "But that was the first time you used it."

He wasn't sure where she was going with this, so he didn't reply. He dug out his key and opened the ship's door.

"I like it," she said. "You can call yourself something all you want, but unless someone actually names you, it isn't real." She fell into the jump seat and sat swinging her feet, looking like a meditative child.

He was trying to set the scanners to pinpoint anything out of the ordinary, but he was working in the dark. He only had the vaguest notion of what the Krevas were hiding, and the scanners weren't very good with vague. "What?" he said when he realized she had stopped talking.

"Names," she said. "Unimportant unless recited back to you."

He recognized her odd speech and unblinking eyes; she was retreating into her mind again. He had to pull her out quickly if she was going to be helpful.

"Question for you," he said. She turned to face him. Suddenly he floundered, unsure of how personal he could get yet. "Um, how do you know all this stuff about me? I mean, you say things, but then you say you forget, and I was wondering, you know, how it all worked."

She paused. "She told me, 'Find him.' She adjusted my mind and gave me a choice. She gave me a map. But having two sets of memory in one mind tends to destroy it, so it stays hidden unless I need it."

He took a moment to decode her words. "So you're saying that you have my complete timeline in your mind? But you can't access it?" he said.

He had suspected it, but to have her admit it was a little jarring. This was exactly the temptation he hadn't wanted to hear. For all his pragmatism and logic, there was some small irrational part of him that starting chattering away. He had seen this hidden layer of memory in her mind; he could easily find it again. It was like when River Song had shown him her diary. He had it in his hands, the forbidden fruit, and he could have looked up anything. But he had resisted then, and he would do the same thing here.

But the little chatterer had spoken up and told him exactly what he had to do to get this new information. He was stronger and faster than her and she would easily be overpowered. He could force himself into her mind and rip through it, scraping out every last detail he could find. What did it matter if he destroyed her in the process? The chatterer told him that it would be beneficial; he could save countless lives with that kind of knowledge, and there was nothing to stop him. He should do it now, find his future and change it, take control for once instead of just accepting things, take it now, take it, take it, _take it,_ _TAKE IT!_

"No," she said.

"What?" he stammered, shaken by her apparent response to his internal struggle.

"I mean, no, it's not exactly like that," she said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. It's nothing," he said. He busied himself with adjusting variables on the scanner. "How would you describe it?" he asked, more to fill the silence than anything.

"It's more like reading a book from your childhood. You know the plot, and maybe a few specific scenes, but when you read it years later, it feels new and familiar at the same time. Does that make sense?"

He looked up and smiled. "Perfectly." Her eyes were focused and she was talking normally again. It disturbed him when she sank into that odd place in her head. She was used to hiding, but he wanted to bring her out. He smirked to himself. The man who makes people better.

Suddenly the scanner chimed. "Here we go, found something. Looks like metallic organics. Oh, they're clever. You wouldn't find it unless you were looking for that specific material. There's quite a lot of it, too. Very clever. Very hidden."

She moved behind him so she could see the screen. "What's a metallic organic? Sounds like a garage band."

"That's like asking whether a zebra is a white animal with black stripes or a black animal with white stripes," he grinned. "It's a metallic substance that's been made from something organic, like wood or cotton. But it can also be something metallic that scans like an organic. No metal means no magnetism and no detection. Someone wants to keep this hidden very badly." He looked at her over his shoulder. "How about we ruin their plans?"

" 'Gaily bedight, a gallant knight, in sunshine and in shadow, had journeyed long, singing a song, in search of Eldorado.' "

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Oh, very much so, Jack."

"You don't have to call that. You know my name."

"You have so many names already; I didn't think you'd mind one more."

"Yeah, but that one really belongs to someone else."

"I'll think about it."

His reply was drowned out by roar of the universe.

* * *

Literay sources are: _I'm Nobody! Who are You? _by Emily Dickinson, and _Eldorado_ by Edgar Allan Poe.


	4. Chapter 4:People Are Slippery

It seemed to be one of those inexplicable laws of the universe that whenever he needed to do something delicate, the only tool he would be provided with was a sledgehammer, metaphorical or otherwise. This appeared to be one of those times.

The temporal-whine had sharpened to a roar while his ship shook and rocked. He was immediately thrown against a rail. "No worries, I have everything under control," he called and pulled himself towards the console. Jane was struggling to keep upright and didn't look like she believed him. "It's okay, don't panic, I just need to filter off some post-dimensional residue," he continued. He pushed several buttons in sequence. It had absolutely no effect. "Huh. Okay, it just needs a little encouragement." He looked around him. "Where did I put that mallet?"

"You mean this one?" she said, holding it up.

"That's it!"

She reached over to give it to him, but a violent shudder threw her to the floor. He helped her get steady, then set to work on the console with the mallet. The shaking slowed and the roar quieted. "There. Told you I knew what I was doing."

"I bet you say that to all the girls," she muttered distractedly. She was rubbing her left arm just below the shoulder.

"You hurt?" he asked.

"No, it's nothing. Just a scratch."

"I'll take a look at it. Just in case," he said.

She hesitated, hand still on her arm. "Alright."

He moved beside her and delicately rested his fingers on her skin. The scratch was hardly bleeding and already started to clot. He noticed black marks showing under her sleeve, like ink. "What's this?" he asked lightly.

He felt her stiffen under his hands. "It's nothing," she said, but he had already pulled her sleeve up to reveal the tattoo. It was two words, written in unadorned script lettering.

"Lupus Malus," she said. "It's Latin for—"

"I know," he interrupted. He let her go and backed away a few steps, as if she was contagious. "Did she do that?"

Jane answered carefully. "She may have given me the idea."

He breathed out sharply but said nothing. He knew Jane was watching him and kept his face blank. A message throughout time and space, a signpost pointing towards ruins. Here stood the Library of Alexandria, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Colossus of Rhodes. Come see what had once been great.

"I'm sorry," she blurted.

"For what?" His voice was bland.

"For coming here and awakening ghosts. For reminding you of things you'd rather leave behind."

He blinked at her word choice. It was very similar to what he had thought at first. "It's not your fault," he mumbled.

"I could have stayed away from you, I could have refused to stay here, I could have run so you would never have known me—"

"Stop," he said quietly. She watched him warily, ready for retribution. She knew all about him, and knew what kind of actions he'd taken against others who'd crossed him. She braced for the storm. "You apologize too much." He let a small smile ghost across his face, and it was her turn to blink in surprise. "I may not allow glass figures on my ship, but I don't ask that you be perfect, either. So you've been tinkered with, so what? I've had conmen ride with me before, fraternized with thieves, even ran with archaeologists. How can you know all that about me and still think that I would refuse you because of your background? I only ask that you trust me."

She breathed deep and relaxed. "Sorry," she said. He cocked an eyebrow. She half-smiled and corrected herself. "I mean, yes. Yeah, I trust you. Secretary, remember?"

The tension in the air dissipated like mist. He moved around the console and made tiny adjustments while he talked. "Excellent. I can't have you swanning off with all that knowledge stuck in your head. Biographies are dangerous things, mine even more so." As he continued to talk, he didn't notice that Jane hadn't moved. He had his back to her when she cried out.

" 'O Rose!' "

He whipped around to see her hands fisted against her eyes.

" 'Thou art sick; the invisible worm that flies in the night, in the howling storm, has found out thy bed of crimson joy, and his dark secret love does thy life destroy.' " She fell silent but didn't remove her hands from her eyes.

He thought he was past being stunned by her, but this new exclamation proved that wrong. "William Blake," he said. He needed to fill the ringing silence. "The forgotten prophet of his time. Or at least he thought he was a prophet. Used to sit naked in his garden. Might not be the best prophet to have emerged, but certainly not one of the worst."

She quietly interrupted him. "That," she said, still blind, "has been burrowing in my mind since I met you. I guess it finally had the excuse it needed to come out."

Far from being offended like she expected, he felt philosophical. "Well, it is your heritage, in a way. I hate to keep bringing up my past, but I once tried to deny my legacy. Pretended she was a child of the machine and nothing more." He walked over and gently pulled her hands down. She stared at the floor. "Refusal only leads to resentment. Use what she's given you. Learn to control it."

"How?"

"Stop fighting the memories," he said simply. "When they crop up, explore them, analyze them, instead of trying to bury them with poetry. Not that I mind the poetry, but it shouldn't be used as a substitute. Look at me." She slowly raised her eyes to meet his. He grinned. "Better?" She nodded. "Good. Now help me land this puppy." The temporal-whine may or may not have increased at that comment. "You didn't mind Wonkavator," he muttered. To Jane, he said, "Hold that button down, that green one. Focusing on the source of the metallic organics, and…there. Got it. Don't want to land right on top of it, so we'll try for within, say, 500 metres. It'll give us some leeway, and hopefully not too much running." Jane snorted. "Oh, everyone's a critic."

The ship landed without further problems, and he approached the door, Jane close behind. "Oh, and by the way, in case we get separated, you'll need this." He handed her a key. She stared in awe but didn't say anything except, "Thank you."

He shrugged. "No big deal. Just keep it safe," he said, smiling. He stepped out into the alley where they had landed. It looked like they were in the business section of town. Glass towers surrounded them, and every other person was in a suit. No one took notice of them. He glanced around for a moment before heading down the street. He could see the building he wanted about a block away. It wasn't the tallest by far, but it still loomed over those surrounding it, and displayed obsidian-dark glass instead of bright silver. Not exactly subtle.

Jane kept pace, taking note of street signs and the people around her. She was definitely an assent. It may be rocky at times, but he would rather have someone like her at his back than no one. She already had an idea of what to expect, and so knew what to look for. Again, he was struck at how familiar she felt, stepping into this life like others had just been filling in until she returned to pick up where they left off. "What do you see?" he asked as they walked.

"Nothing. There's nothing," she said. "There's people and cars and weather and food. There's nothing strange here."

"Not yet, anyway," he said. They reached the front of the building, which was removed from the street by an expansive courtyard. A marble block proclaimed Chekhov Plaza in gold letters. "You know any Chekhov?" he asked.

She wrinkled her nose. "Unfortunately."

He laughed. "Front door or back door?"

"Front door. But I want to use the psychic paper."

He mimicked her earlier expression. "Alright. But no circus performers or whatever it was last time. Something simple and believable."

"No problem," she said as she snatched it out of his hand and stalked up the steps.

They entered the reception area—more of a hall really—and approached the crisp young woman behind a massive walnut desk. Their shoes squeaking on the marble floor announced them long before they reached her.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked. Her tone hovered between welcoming and dismissive, depending on their answer. She eyed their jeans and trainers.

Jane took charge immediately, something he was glad to let her do. He studied the plaque next to the lifts.

"No, we don't," he heard Jane say, "but we've been expected for some time. Here's our card." He saw her flash the wallet and continued speaking. "Don't worry, this is only a routine assessment. I know that we all want this to go as smoothly as possible, and this will be easier on everybody if we could be left to do our job. We don't want to get in anyone's way." She flashed a charming yet professional smile. She _was_ good.

"Shall I tell Mr. Robertson that you're on your way up?" She reached for the phone uncertainly.

"That's not necessary," Jane said. "If he's busy when we get there, we'll start the paperwork while we wait." She thanked the receptionist and joined him by the lifts.

"That worked well," he said quietly as she pushed the 'up' button. "What did you tell her?"

"Just that we were inspectors."

"What kind?" he persisted.

"The kind people don't say no to unless they want to get into trouble."

The doors slid open. They stepped inside, and he pushed a floor without looking. As soon as the doors closed he said, "Let me see it."

She handed him the wallet with a sigh. On the inside it read Sturm and Drang: Corporate Accountants and Auditors.

"Not bad," he said, then saw the rest of it. "You called me Hurricane? That's worse than Jack! Do you really expect me to answer to Mr Hurricane?"

"It was the best I could come up with. It's similar to other names you've had. Sort of." She pulled a face. "I ended up calling myself Chimera."

It was true. Sole proprietors of Sturm and Drang were Owen Hurricane and Cathleen Chimera. He laughed, chortled even. "I'm surprised she let you in. No more psychic paper for you."

"It's better than something boring. Something that sounds obviously fake."

"What, like John Smith?" he asked, still teasing.

Her expression became blank and distant, like it did when she was quoting poetry. She was remembering something from their shared memory. "John…Smith?" she said faintly.

"Easy," he cautioned. "Don't force it."

"John Smith," she said again, "was hiding."

He watched her expression change with interest. No need to tell her that he had dropped the name deliberately. He wanted to know how she would react to letting the memories overlap, and the results were promising.

"From the Family," she finished. She blinked and looked at him. Past reactions had been stressful and painful for her, but now she looked quite calm, if a little confused. "That was weird."

"How's your head?" he asked as the lift slid to a stop and opened.

"Tingly." And walked out the doors.

He shook his own head. Humans were complicated; one who had been tinkered with and was technically two people even more so. Chimera indeed. But then, he always loved a challenge.

"Where are we anyway?" Jane asked.

"Research and Development. Eighth floor," he said.

"Development of what? I didn't even see what this place does."

They walked down a long corridor full of doors. Most had names or initials stamped on them. "Oleander Industries," he answered. "They say they're into textiles. They're in the entire building, on every floor. Most of it is mundane stuff like Finance, Advertising, PR, but then there's things like the Testing Facility, something called the Concept Laboratory, and, of course, R&D. If I can get to a computer I can tell you more."

They stopped at an intersection. Each branch looked as long as the one they came down, and there were more branches beyond those. They still hadn't seen any people.

"What about the workers? Do you think the whole building's involved?"

He wandered down the left-hand corridor, reading the signs on the doors. "Nah, nearly all of them would be used to maintain the cover. They won't know any more than someone on the street. No, the ones we're looking for will be at the top of the ladder, or researchers like your friends at the café." He started to test the doors and found them all locked. "Probably got most of the employees by waving a fat cheque in front of their faces. Offer enough money and no one will ask questions. You lot never change."

"Hey! That's an unfair generalization. What if I said that all time travellers are nosy?"

He turned to her, amused. "And how many time travellers have you met?"

"Just the one, but I'm sure he's a good representation of the whole," she said archly, but he caught the teasing underneath.

"Oh really? And who told you that being nosy was a bad thing? Have you noticed what's odd about this floor yet?"

"There's no windows in the offices, no people around, and every door is locked, even the copy room?" she asked, looking smug.

"Give the girl a medal," he grinned. "Very good. Now, we could go storm the labs to find out what's up, wrecking general havoc wherever we go, or we could simply check the records. A very good friend taught me to always look at the little things like personnel."

She tilted her head as if listening to something. "Supertemp?"

He nodded. "That's what she called herself, yes. So here comes the true test of character: when faced with a locked door, without knowing what's on the other side, what should one do?" He picked a door that said S.T.R. Grey and contemplated the lock. Before he would have simply sonicked it; before that he would have kicked it in. He ran a finger around the keyhole and felt a familiar lack of current. Only one thing cancelled out the natural electricity of metal.

"Deadlock seal," he sighed. "There's likely one on every door in here."

"That's not good for us, is it?" she asked.

"Well, in a way, no. Means that whoever designed this was counting on keeping people like us out. People with the same level of technology they do."

Jane frowned. "And in another way?"

He grinned in return. "In another way, it means that they weren't counting on keeping out lower technology. There's a saying on Equus Nine: Breikian glass may be able to withstand lasers, but not a rock." He pulled out several thin pieces of metal and poked around in the keyhole.

She laughed incredulously. "You're picking the lock? That's brilliant. Where'd you learn that?"

"Oh, it's amazing the things you pick up when you know as many thieves as I do. Never thought it would come in handy, but there you go." There was a solid thunk from the door and he turned to smile at her. "We're in."

The office behind it was spacious but sparse. Anything personal was absent. No photos, no frames, no trinkets. The only evidence that someone worked here was a sheaf of papers on the corner of the desk. He sat down at the computer and began to hack into the employee files. She flipped through the papers.

"These are fake," she said. "Or at least they're not the right kind of paperwork to find in the R&D department."

"What's on them?" he asked without turning around.

"Looks like the political history of Australia since 1872. Here's the environmental impact during the Trudeau administration here in Canada. The Second Great Depression of 2021 in America. The line of succession for the British crown." She paused. "William abdicates? Really?"

"Oi! No peeking," he called. "Look at this. Almost all the employees have normal records. Health coverage, sick days, vacations, everything. But everyone who supposedly works on the eighth floor and up, nothing. The records are blank. Guess which floors are included?"

She thought a moment. "All those odd ones you mentioned? The Concept Lab or whatever?"

"Yep. Four floors of non-existent employees. The records state about one hundred and twenty people, but I would bet that there are only thirty, maybe forty tops. And get this," he pulled up the building's blueprints, "there's an extra basement underneath. Here it shows three underground floors, one for storage, one for parking, and one for maintenance. All nice and proper. Except," he pulled up another page of blueprints, "there are pipes going where no pipe should go. My guess is that that's where the real research is happening." He sat back, feeling extremely pleased with himself. "The importance of plumbing. Never underestimate the importance of plumbing."

" 'Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' " She was grinning madly.

"Oh yes, the hubris of powerful men. Never dream that they can be toppled by a smile and a picked lock."

There was a soft click behind them and they turned to the door simultaneously. A handheld tranquillizer gun was levelled at them, and behind the gun was Pen.

* * *

Literary sources are: _The Sick Rose_ by William Blake, and _Ozymandias_ by Percy Bysshe Shelley. _Sturm und Drang_ is a literary genre term meaning "storm and stress."


	5. Chapter 5:People Are Confused

They stared at each other for a long moment. Neither he nor Jane moved, and the gun in Pen's hand didn't waver. "What are you doing here?" he finally asked.

"Sightseeing," he answered immediately. "And you?"

Pen's gaze swung between Jane and him. "You guys weren't kidding about checking them out. What have you found?"

He leaned back and put his feet up on the desk, completely at ease. "Only pipes."

Pen frowned slightly. "Why should I trust you?"

"That's a very odd question coming from the man with the gun," he said. "Seems we should be the ones asking that. How do we know that you're not going to drug us and take us to the secret Lab of Doom?"

"I'm not the threat here," Pen said.

"You are to us," he retorted.

"You broke in!"

"You're lying to us!"

"Enough!" They both turned to Jane. "No matter how difficult the situation, there is no need to shout." She smiled wanly at him, then said to Pen, "Why don't you trust us?"

"You're different," he said simply. At a sharp look, Pen continued. "I mean, you're new, unknown. You're unpredictable. And then you start talking, and it's like you're not even using real words, like it's all…different," he finished, gesturing with his free hand to his temple.

"Oh," Jane said, clearly not understanding.

He grinned. "He means that we don't translate like other humans do. Downside of being an empathic; the translation circuits can get a bit overloaded if something unexpected comes along."

"A Babel fish on LSD," Jane said.

He turned away from Pen. "What?"

"The translation. It would have aspects other than just language that would get confused, right?"

"Right, but what did you call it?"

"A Babel fish. You know, Douglas Adams?"

"Nah, he was always a bit weird for me. Now," he said, turning back to Pen, "you're right. You have no reason at all to trust us. I mean, we've lied and scammed our way in here, a supposedly secure facility. Can't say I blame you. I wouldn't trust me, either. But you will. Because you trust her." He saw Jane twitch out of the corner of his eye. "Because, however briefly, you looked inside her head. Tell me, Pen: what did you see?"

The gun shook ever so slightly. Pen had been meeting his gaze, but now his attention shifted to Jane. The same horrified, pitying look had come back. "I saw the wolves," he said softly.

He nodded. "You saw the double nature of her mind, which means if you saw her, you saw me." He slowly rose and stood in front of Pen. "I don't think you want to get in my way," he said softly. "If you know her, and therefore know me, then you will let us by." When Pen still hesitated, he said, "You wanted to help us back at the café; either join us now, or forget you ever saw us."

Pen looked from him to Jane and back. He slowly lowered the gun and stepped to the side.

"Good man." He walked out into the corridor but was stopped by Jane's voice.

"Why did you want to help? At the café, I mean," she asked.

The pity and horror had faded, but he still looked conflicted. "You quote poetry," he said abruptly.

Jane frowned in confusion. "Yes."

It was like he was sizing her up. He didn't explain the odd comment, and answered her question instead. "He's right; I do trust you. I don't really know why. Instinct maybe, though that's not quite accurate. Besides, you need a man on the inside. Right, Jack?"

He straightened up from where he had been leaning against the wall. "Firstly, you can stop calling me that. Secondly—"

"I think it suits," Jane interrupted. "Owen Jack Hurricane."

"Don't you start," he said, glancing at her. "Secondly, I'm willing to accept why you wanted to help before. I've heard worse reasons, and instinct's as good as any. I'm also willing to accept why you thought we were dangerous. But what I don't understand is how you found us. You didn't just happen to show up on the same floor at the same time with no clear demands or threats. You're either rubbish at hostage taking, or you had another objective. If this objective was, in fact, to find and assist us in whatever we're doing, then why the gun? Thing is, I suspect that you came here with a different purpose, one that required you to arm yourself with a non-lethal weapon, and just happened to find us on the same side. Convenient allies." He looked Pen over with interest. "Some sort of freedom fighter, I'm guessing?"

Pen looked between Jane and him. "Is he always like this?" he said to her.

She smiled. "Does that mean you'll come with us? It would be easier if we had someone to show us what we're looking for." She directed the last comment at him, asking for permission.

"Well, after all that stuff I said to you about thieves and archaeologists, I can hardly deny him, can I? Right then; Penthoulavid Vor Krowickska, are you willing and able to join our merry troupe, hazardous to your health though it may be?"

"Yes?"

He grinned. "Excellent." He turned on his heel and started to walk back down the corridor. "Now, we found a hidden basement which probably holds whatever we're looking for—did I mention we picked up metallic organics on the scanner?—and I want to know what they're doing with such a large amount of rare material. If you can give us what you've found out already, then we'll have a better idea of what we're dealing with. You keeping up?" He had reached the lifts and jabbed a button, Jane and Pen arriving slightly behind him.

"Yes, of course," Pen said.

"And?"

"Well, I can tell you what the corporation is doing officially, what their actual records say, not the stuff they tell the human workers. But anything nefarious," he shrugged, "I was hoping you'd be able to help with that."

The lift doors glided open and they stepped in. He pushed the button for one of the basement levels. There were only three, of course. "Aliens, secrecy, and shoes, going down," he muttered. As they descended Pen continually glanced his way.

He finally asked, "What is it?"

Pen looked sheepish. "What you said before, it's…it's not exactly true."

"I said a lot. Remind me."

"I'm not a freedom fighter. I'm a," he squirmed under his gaze, "I'm a journalist."

Pen was turned away from Jane so he didn't catch her trying to conceal a smile. He also felt like smirking at this foolish young alien, but remained straight-faced. "Ah, well, I can see how that can be a point of contention. But I'm sure we can work around that little setback, yes?"

Pen visibly relaxed. "Thanks. Some people think that a reporter is the same thing as a spy."

"How did you get involved with this?" he asked.

"We needed the money. Everybody was headed off-world for work, and Oleander was offering research positions, so Quill and Siblus signed up. I was allowed to come because of the family connection. I thought I could do a bit of a story on the place."

"Lucky you're with us then," Jane said, grinning. "You'll get the story of a lifetime."

"Now, now," he said absently as they came to a stop and the doors opened, "don't go tempting fate."

"If they thought you were too stupid to work on the project," Jane asked, "how'd you manage to get access to all this?"

Pen spread his hands in a self-deprecating manner. "Mail-boys can go anywhere. We're invisible to most people."

He smiled. "You want to find out what's going on—"

"—work in the kitchens, I know," Jane finished. "It's all plumbing, personnel, and pastry with you."

"Well, it works."

The doors slid open on the maintenance level. Pen took the lead, and started explaining the various security measures the corporation had installed. He hung back when he realized that Jane was receiving the majority of his attention. He shook his head and grinned. She was pretty, he conceded. And a mind like hers would be irresistibly intriguing for Pen. Instinct. Sure.

They were led through tunnels of stark white corridors with more locked doors. Evidence of both contemporary and anachronistic surveillance could be seen. Pen stopped in front of an unmarked door and slid a panel open beside it. Before he could even touch the scanner underneath, a voice sounded down the hall.

"Not again," he said as he turned around, Jane and Pen behind him. A human security guard stood staring at them.

"You're not supposed to be down here, not without some ident," he said, a mixture of authority and hesitation in his voice.

"Ident, of course, I have some right here, if you'd like to look," he said and reached for the psychic paper. The guard mistook the sudden gesture and his hand twitched sharply to his belt.

Something snapped close to his ear and a dark object flew towards the guard. It hit his neck and stuck there. The guard groped for it before collapsing to the floor.

He turned to see Pen holding the tranquillizer gun. "What'd you do that for?" he snarled.

"He would've have stopped us. It was necessary," Pen said simply. The calm look on his face somehow infuriated him further.

"What the hell is in those darts?"

Pen managed to preen in the face of his glare. "Kreva venom. It's a neurotoxin that paralysis the motor system. It gets distilled and refined and used as a tranquillizer. It's a good way to make some money if you're down on your luck."

"You sell your venom?" Jane asked.

"Why not? Humans sell their own…fluids." Pen looked at him pointedly. He scowled back. "I'll just make sure he doesn't remember us." He walked towards the unconscious guard.

"Hold on. Just how are you planning to do that?" he demanded.

Pen waved his fingers. "I'll make him forget."

He walked up beside him. "No, no, wait, no. You can't go mucking around with people's heads like that."

Pen looked genuinely confused. "Why not?" he said again.

"Because, because," he glanced at Jane in exasperation, "because a person's mind is their last refuge. It's one of the few places that they know they're safe. Until someone like you comes along."

"Would you rather have him running off to tell someone?"

He paused with indecision. "No," he said finally. With reluctance he asked, "How long will that stuff last?"

Pen looked the body over. "About six hours, give or take."

He nodded. "We'll be gone by then." He walked back to Jane. Pen followed.

"You think you can stop it in six hours?"

"No. This is a reconnaissance mission. We go in there to learn, not to destroy." He looked at Jane, who had been watching them both silently. "At least, not yet. Pen, the door please."

Pen approached the door, but didn't touch the scanner; instead he looked warily between them. He leaned close to Jane and whispered to her, "This could get dangerous very quickly. I know how they deal with people who get in their way. Are you sure you want to stay? Can you trust him?"

Jane looked at Pen with a grave air. " 'From childhood's hour I have not been as others were; I have not seen as others saw.' " She smiled distantly. " 'Then- in my childhood, in the dawn of a most stormy life- was drawn from every depth of good and ill the mystery which binds me still.' "

Pen was unperturbed at her manner of speech. "But you have a choice. Walk away." He dropped his voice still lower. "He's not safe. Even I can see that. I know you know that, too. How can you walk willingly into this?"

But Jane had become lost in her recitations and was hardly attending to Pen. " 'From the thunder and the storm, and the cloud that took the form, when the rest of Heaven was blue, of a demon in my view.' " She raised her eyes to meet his, standing apart from them, then refocused on Pen. "Yes, I have a choice. I have choices that no one else will ever be offered. But this is all I have. Why would I refuse that?"

He couldn't see Pen's expression from where he was standing, but he could see his hands twitch as if to reach for her. He coughed, making Pen jump, and said, "The door?"

"Right," he said and pressed his hand to the scanner. There was a hum and a beep, and the door slid into the wall. Pen cast a last glance at Jane before marching into the clinical-looking corridor. They followed, and the door silently shut behind them.

He held Jane back a little so that Pen outpaced them. "There's a lot of interrogation happening here," he murmured.

"You don't trust him, he doesn't trust you, and he thinks that I shouldn't trust you either. Sound about right?"

"What about you? No one's asks who you trust."

She bumped him gently. "I already know enough not to trust you," she teased, "but, yeah, I trust Pen. At least, I trust him not to betray us."

"And why is that?"

She frowned. "Spoilers?" she questioned, unsure. "It's like he said, it feels like instinct. Maybe he spied a bit of his timeline crossing ours in my head."

He wondered how she could talk so casually about things like that. He had to ask, he had to. "If you could, would you access memories of things to come?" He thought of his moral struggle only hours ago.

She glared fiercely at him. "No. I remember other people who have tried to seek their own future, and the consequences. You yourself never sought the river's source before its time."

The diary, yes. He remembered as well. "Are you ever tempted?"

"Of course. I am only human, after all." She smiled and, satisfied, he smiled back.

Pen stopped up ahead. "There's no elevator access to where we need to go, but there are stairs through here." He gestured to a door with 'emergency access only' stencilled on it.

"What'll we find at the bottom?" he asked.

"The main production floor." Pen smiled sardonically. "They liked the idea of an assembly line, so it's all in one place."

He clapped his hands together, surprising them. "Excellent! I like a nice organized secret lair. Let's go." He pushed open the door and dashed down the stairs. He stopped at the first landing when he realized the others weren't behind him. "Come on, what is it now?"

"You trust the man holding the gun to walk behind you?" asked Pen.

He waved the question off. "Enough about this trust issue. You want me to trust you, don't shoot me. Easy. Now, are you coming?"

Jane gave Pen a playful shove down the stairs, and followed close behind.

They travelled down several flights in this fashion. Pen still talked more to Jane than to him, but she answered his questions easily. Although when Pen called him Jack for the third time, he turned to Jane and said, "Look, you can't keep on calling me that. It really doesn't suit."

"Fine," she said. "Owen then?"

He frowned in thought. "That might belong to someone else as well."

"Well, looks like all you're left with is Mr Hurricane."

"Can it at least be Dr Hurricane?"

"No."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Pen scanned his palm again. The door slid open and they stepped out on to the production floor.

"Oh, wow," breathed Jane.

It sprawled several times the area of the building above it, full of machinery and lab equipment. Everything looked clinical and sterile.

"Pen?" he asked. "Show me where the finished product is kept. I need a sample."

Pen nodded and walked towards dozens of storage containers about 300 metres to their left. Jane and he followed, keeping an eye out for people who might disturb them. When they reached the containers, he saw that they were full of rolls of material covered in plastic. Pen unwrapped one and held it out.

"They've been developing this cloth; they say it's revolutionary. It's resistant to wear, has twice the torsion strength of steel, and can be used in place of any sort of manufactured textile."

"Well that doesn't sound too bad," he said, taking the swatch. "About as revolutionary as Teflon in its day. Why the big hush-up? Here," he handed it over to Jane and started to unwrap another. He was rubbing it between his fingers when a soft sound made him turn around.

Jane was holding the swatch to her chest like an infant, making cooing noises and looking blank-eyed. Her hands tenderly ran along the material, stroking it.

"Jane!" he said.

She snapped her head up and looked bewildered. "What happened?"

He carefully took the swatch back from her. "The material has a sympathetic resonance. It must tune itself to your chemical patterns or brainwaves or something similar. Interesting. Why didn't I feel anything?" he mused.

"Hold it close. Maybe more contact makes it more potent," Jane suggested.

He adjusted it so he was holding it like Jane had been. At first there was nothing, then a familial contentment started to spread from his chest, in-between his hearts. It wasn't ecstatic joy or elation, but the feeling that comes from returning home after a long absence to children. Underneath it was an ache, like an old war-wound; long healed but leaving deep scar tissue. He suddenly shifted the swatch to hold it under his arm.

"We should go. We have what we came for." He turned to Pen. "I think you should come with us, being an empathic and working in a factory that makes empathetic material and all."

"Where are we going?" Pen asked as they walked.

"Back to my ship. I can examine this more closely there." The others struggled to keep up with him as he ran up the stairs.

"What's wrong?" asked Jane. "How bad is this stuff?"

"It dulls people," he said. "Makes them docile. Cancels out passion and aggression and ambition and everything that makes people human. And it's going to be everywhere."

Jane picked up speed behind him. "That bad, then."

* * *

Literary sources are: _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ by Douglas Adams and _Alone_ by Edgar Allan Poe


End file.
